


Moment & Time

by greenpen



Category: Homeland
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-01-02
Updated: 2016-01-07
Packaged: 2018-05-11 05:43:02
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 3
Words: 4,351
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5615923
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/greenpen/pseuds/greenpen
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It feels for some reason like a permanent goodbye. She is leaving in twelve days, he knows he can’t stop her. She’s too proud to ask anymore, at least at this point.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Departures

I.

Saul had not visited. 

There was one brief phone call, he sounded rushed, she could hear street noise in the background, horns from New York City taxis. She was his morning call on the walk to the bodega to get an egg and cheese sandwich. He didn’t say, but she knew. 

He asked how she was feeling, she said alright, better than yesterday. She asked how Mira was, he said very good, the city suited her. That was the extent of it. He felt a lifetime away, unreachable, even his voice sounded unfamiliar, like some stranger. 

She wanted to tell him about Kabul. 

Maggie and Frank are there all the time, every day, helping with Franny, helping with the boxes. Boxes everywhere, trying to fit all of her life inside these assemblages of cardboard, figuring out what stays and what goes, what will matter 7,000 miles from here. 

She tries to come up with ways in her head to tell them that these boxes will be shipped to Afghanistan, a war zone to them. In her head, she’s already accepted. 

She picks up her daughter, smells her, thinks how many more of these she will have, how many she will get. It feels handed to her. 

She is nine days post-partum. 

On the tenth day he calls and asks if he can come over to see her and the baby. She looks around her bedroom, Franny’s crib in the corner, the smattering of boxes, stuff everywhere. 

She suggests he meet them at the park instead. 

He asks if he can bring anything. 

Nothing, no. 

Maybe she will tell him about Kabul. 

. . . . 

The leaves are turning, blushes of red and yellow. It’s just cool enough to wear a scarf. She bundles Franny in the stroller as they leave.

He is waiting for them when they round the corner at the entrance to the park. He’s carrying two cups of coffee in his hand and extends one to her. 

“Thanks,” she says. 

“I figured,” he says. 

She takes a sip and then places it in the holder on the stroller. 

It’s awkward, them standing there, still. A few people run past. 

“Is she sleeping?” he asks. 

“No, I don’t think so. If she slept now then what would she do at night?” she says, only half-joking. 

“Can I hold her?” he asks. 

“Sure.” 

He comes around to the side of the stroller and glides her into his arms, a tiny thing, just a few pounds. She’s wrapped in a thin cloth blanket, cream-colored, it smells freshly laundered. 

He looks into her eyes staring back at him, her eyes, blue like her mother. He brushes his thumb across her cheek, that unmistakable softness. 

“Wow,” he says. 

She looks up at him, staring down at her — at her child. They feel like other people all of a sudden, people she can’t recognize. If she was watching from a distance she might think they are a young family on their first official outing as three. 

“She’s beautiful,” he says. “Look at that hair.” 

He smiles, runs his fingers over the thin strawberry wisps. “Oh, my God… it’s beautiful.” 

She begins to yawn, eyes shut, fingers curling into a fist. 

“I think she’s tired.” 

“Good. Maybe she’ll nap.” 

He places her back in the stroller and begins pushing up the trail. Carrie grabs her coffee and sips alongside. 

“God, I can’t get over that red hair,” he says, laughing. “Crazy.”

She turns to him, studies his face, wrinkles collecting around his eyes. His hair is shorter now, he’d just gotten it cut. He looks different, a soldier almost. He reminds her of someone she went to school with.

“Will you call her Frances?” 

“Franny. I think.” 

“I like that. She looks like a Franny.” 

“You don’t think it’s too old-fashioned?” 

“No, I think it’s perfect.” 

. . . . 

They walk in silence for long stretches of time. Neither feels the need to fill the empty air with pleasantries or small talk. He pushes the stroller dutifully as she takes small sips of the coffee he brought her. 

“When do you leave for Istanbul?” he asks. It’s the first thing either of them has said in ten minutes. 

“Twelve days.” 

“Quick.” 

“They need me out there.” 

He pauses before answering.

“Right."

“What?” 

“Well, they’ve got a deputy, don’t they?”

“What’s your point?” 

He can feel her growing more irritated, but stays the course. 

“Well… they’ll still need you in a month or two, right?” 

She turns to him but he won’t look at her. He’s staring at his hands, incredible concentration. 

“I’m surprised Lockhart even allowed it. I mean you just had a kid a week ago.” 

She clenches her jaw, in that way she does, offended. 

“Well it was my idea to go then, not Lockhart’s.” 

He stops in his tracks then. 

“You’re joking.” 

“Why is that so funny?” 

“It’s not… it’s just…” 

“What?” 

“She needs you, too, you know.” 

She cuts in front of him, begins pushing the stroller in his place, leaving him a few paces behind. 

“Carrie.” 

“If I’d known you were just gonna scold me the whole time I would have stayed home,” she starts. She won’t let him see her face. “We would have stayed home.” 

He’s so used to this now, to her erratic temper, her moods. He starts up behind her again, a running jog to catch up. 

“Hey, Carrie… I’m sorry. Maybe… maybe it won’t make a difference anyway. She’ll be there with you. Maybe it doesn’t even matter. I just thought—“ 

“It’s Kabul,” she says then, interrupting him. 

He opens his mouth to say something but doesn’t, just stands there, frozen.

“I—what?” 

“They’re sending me to Kabul.” 

“Who is?” 

“Lockhart. The post just opened there. The station chief… his wife was… It’s opened and he wants me to go.” 

“What about Istanbul?” 

“What about it?” 

“That’s the post he offered you.” 

“He offered me this one instead. Two weeks ago.” 

“You’re not gonna accept, are you?” 

She pauses, crosses her arms. 

“Of course I am.” 

“It’s a war zone, Carrie.” 

“I’m aware.” 

“And you can’t bring her.” 

She pauses. Then, slowly: “I’m aware of that, too.” 

“You know that region gets more volatile every fucking week?! Suicide bombings, trucks exploding. The Taliban is gearing up for something.” 

“All the more reason I need to go.” 

“This is crazy.” 

“It’s not.” 

“It is.”

“You just had a _baby_ ,” he continues, growing more exasperated, in that way he does, in that way he hates.

They’ve stopped in the middle of the trail and there are people running around them, turning their heads behind. Carrie eyes them and starts walking again. Quinn reaches out to the handle and stops her.

“How long?” he asks.

“How long what?” 

“How long… is the posting for?” 

“Twelve months,” she says quietly. 

He laughs to himself, a small, weak, sardonic sort of a laugh that sets her on edge. 

“Twelve months…” he mutters to himself. 

She could probably strangle him right now. But she doesn’t. There is still something she needs to say. 

“I want you to come with me.” 

He is silent for a moment. She expects him to burst out laughing, to double over in exultation, to call her a crazy psycho, or a bad mother, a bad friend. She expects almost anything other than what he actually says, which is “Why?” 

She is silent for a moment, too. 

“Why me?” he asks again. 

If she was honest she’d tell him that she doesn’t feel safe without him, that he makes her better, that she trusts him, that she trusts he would always do the right and good thing. 

“I’ve got no one else to ask,” she says. 

. . . . 

They walk in almost-silence for a few minutes more. 

He asks if she needs help packing, or if he can bring dinner or lunch by some days. 

Nothing, no. 

She says she should get Franny back, that she’s probably hungry, needs changing. He nods and smiles. He offers to walk them back to her place. Again she refuses. 

He can sense there is only one thing she wants from him, and it’s the one thing he can’t give her.

They are at a stalemate now, an impasse. 

He picks Franny up one more time, then says don’t be a stranger. Her lips curl up into a smile that she stops that far. 

It feels for some reason like a permanent goodbye. She is leaving in twelve days, he knows he can’t stop her. She’s too proud to ask anymore, at least at this point. 

She knows his lack of answer is confirmation he won’t be coming. She tries not to hold it against him. She wouldn’t do the same for him, she knows that much. Or couldn’t. The distinction seems to matter, though it doesn’t, really.

Goodbye, she says to him, and he echoes: goodbye. It’s gotten considerably colder now and her teeth start to chatter, the wind nipping at her face. 

They part ways then, heading off in separate directions. She can hear him kick the leaves on the path, picking up small rocks with his shoes. She turns around, catches his familiar silhouette, hands in his pockets, collar flipped up. 

The distance between them has never felt greater. 

She looks back at her daughter, staring straight up, blue sky above. 

She knows she is doing the right thing. 


	2. Arrivals

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> There’s someone there, who says some things, and all she can think is that it’s just not enough. None of it feels right. Then she remembers he wouldn’t want any of it. Not the star, or the speech, none of it mattered to him. Funerals are for the living, is what her dad used to say.

II.

Everything in her life reminds her of him. 

There is not one thing that doesn’t recall something from months or years ago. A comment he said, a thing he did, an action he influenced. So many parts of her life are wrapped up in him, in his being, in his ways. When she thinks, she hears his voice, providing input. 

She thinks, this is how people go mad. 

When they bury him, she thinks of him at her father’s funeral, arriving at the last minute. She remembers how he held her, his fingertips touching her side. She remembers the black dress she wore, the earrings she picked out. She sees him standing there in his black suit, those shoes it looked like he’d never worn. She remembers the Irish whiskey. 

He gets none of that. 

She is there, plus Dar, and Saul. A few people she suspects are from the group show up. They look at her with knowing glances. They must know her name was on the letter. They must know who she is. 

There’s someone there, who says some things, and all she can think is that it’s just not enough. None of it feels right. Then she remembers he wouldn’t want any of it. Not the star, or the speech, none of it mattered to him. 

Funerals are for the living, is what her dad used to say. 

. . . . 

When she gets off the plane at Dulles, Franny is waiting there with Maggie, hardly able to stand still, either of them. She spots the flash of red in the crowd waiting at arrivals and drops to her knees to hug her. Franny feels smaller than she remembers and she wraps her in her arms, feels her small fingers clutch at her neck. 

“I missed you, Mommy,” she says, into her ear. 

“Oh, sweetie…” she starts. “I missed you too.” She pulls away and kisses her on the nose, brushes the hair off her face. 

“I missed you so much.” 

She starts to cry, though she told herself she wouldn’t, fat tears gathering at the corners of her eyes. “Oh, God, I missed you so much.” 

Franny brings her hand to her face and brushes at a few of the tears. 

“Thank you,” she says. 

“You’re sad?” Franny asks. 

“No. Happy. Happy that I’m here with you.” 

She picks her up into her arms. “Come on,” she says, and starts walking back toward Maggie. Franny rests her head on her shoulder. That familiar warmth. 

“Hey?” she says, and Franny turns her head back the other way. 

She wants her to hear this. 

“I love you.” 

“I love you, too,” she says back softly. 

“I love you so much.” 

She thinks of all the times she’s left her daughter, too many for three years. Each a distinct, pressing need. She never wanted to, she knows that much. She tells herself that much. It’s the truth, she didn’t. 

But somewhere in the back of her mind, want and need start to bleed into each other. Their meanings fray at the edges, get fuzzy, there in the overlap.

If anything drives her crazy, it will be that. 

. . . . 

He’s left an envelope that not’s for her. It just says “John Jr.” across the middle, same lettering as the one he left her, the one she keeps in the back of her closet in a thin brown box, inconspicuous. 

She goes to see Dar. He’s much kinder to her now, after. Or, he’s just not as combative. He tolerates her. He’s acquiescent, gives her Julia’s number without much coaxing. Julia, whom she suspects was a lot quieter in giving into his demands six, seven, ten years ago. She got it, and then got out.

She wonders if he paid her. It’s a shitty thing to wonder, she knows. But she wonders if she knew. She had a baby at home to take care of and an awareness of the way the cards were stacked. 

. . . .

Their home is beautiful. It’s in among a neighborhood of beautiful homes, all neatly tucked together, just outside the city. She thinks this must be a new development, they must have just recently moved here. They have one of those signs out front that says the name of their home security system. 

She’s driven up here alone, the day before July Fourth. On the counter a dozen cupcakes are cooling. She wonders if they’re going to a party tomorrow. 

She notices the picture frames of them, all three together. Father, mother, son. She sees the team photos from his baseball team, standing in that pose, batter’s stance. 

She feels almost like an intruder and tries not to stare. She wonders if this is how he would have felt, seeing her, just a few months ago, perfectly fine without him, another man in his place. Would he have recoiled at photos of them, felt envy or guilt or anger at the sight of her child’s drawings on the kitchen table? 

She doesn’t ask, but Julia explains in more detail how she came to find out. It was all over the news here, the poor man held captive and gassed to death by ISIS. Of course it was. Carrie sometimes forgets this detail, that his death was not private but broadcast, worldwide, for millions upon millions of people to watch, their television screens and iPhones the barrier against which to keep out the suffering. 

Carrie says, “I’m so sorry,” which is about the only thing she can think of to say anyway. She mentioned on the phone that she was a friend of his. She tries not to refer to him as Quinn. She knows that to her he is John. 

She wonders who John is. She wonders if they met in Baltimore, were teenage sweethearts before Dar took him away, down the rabbit hole. She wonders how much of the men they both knew fit together, like carbon paper overlays, parts of one traced into the outline of the other. 

She doesn’t ask questions. 

After about half an hour she reaches into her bag and retrieves the envelope. 

“This is for John. I’m not sure what’s in it.” 

Julia takes it, turns it over, pulls the corner of the seal up, then stops, thinks better of it. 

“He left this?” 

“Yes.” 

She pauses, measuring words. “You know I hadn’t spoken to him in about three years?” 

“No, I didn’t know.” 

“I told him to stop calling. My husband doesn’t like it when he calls.” 

“I’m sorry,” Carrie says again, frowning. Then: “have you told John Jr.?” 

“Johnny,” Julia says. 

“Johnny. Have you told him, about his father?” 

She waits for a moment, then answers, “No.” She’s still staring at the envelope. 

Carrie’s prepared to let it hang there and then leave, make up some excuse like she has a long drive back and an early morning tomorrow. Which is a lie, of course. It’s a holiday. 

“What’s the point now anyway?” 

“Well, don’t you worry he’ll be angry at you whenever he finds out?” she says, then immediately regrets it. 

“Why would he be angry at _me_?”

“I— I’m sorry, I didn’t mean—”

“We both did what we had to do,” she says, and Carrie’s not sure who she means by “we.” _We who?_

“Right,” Carrie says. 

And then she makes the excuse, says the lie about the long drive back and the early morning. Julia doesn’t protest or make small talk or offer her a glass of water. Carrie figures she wants her out of her home as much as she does. 

She’s not sure why but she thought that coming here would make a difference, would make her feel better. She thought this woman would have something to say. Something about putting this man to rest—literally, figuratively, in all the ways there are. Instead she feels like a vulture. 

She can’t stop apologizing. With each time the words become more hollow, warp into some horror house expression of pity and grief. They start to just mean _nothing_ , just some thing she says on instinct, a reflex. The chorus of “bless you”s after someone sneezes. 

She gets in her car and drives, the long way home. 


	3. Limbo

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It’s silly, the hypotheticals. You’d tell me it was silly. Maybe it’s the only thing I have, now. I can’t feel or touch anything else, just see it, in my head, like a dream. Like a movie, playing reels.

III.

Quinn—

When Franny came home from school yesterday I could tell she’d been crying. Her face was tear-stained and her eyes bloodshot and puffy. Her cheeks were bright red. 

I asked her what happened and she said she fell on the playground at school, just tripped and fallen, something like that. I didn’t think much of it. She’s like me when I was a kid, always running too fast for her own good. 

Later her teacher called and told me she’d been teased for her hair. That a group of girls said she couldn’t play with them at school or eat lunch with them because “no red hair was allowed.” 

I started crying on the phone, and all I could think of after is that time, right after she was born. You came over, I think we went for a walk in the park, and you said her hair was beautiful. It was so long ago. I remember you said it though. 

I tell her the same thing all the time, I think she’s embarrassed by it (for good reason, I guess), but she doesn’t believe me, she’s not convinced. Sometimes I wonder, if you were here, you’d tell it to her every night maybe, before she went to bed. She’d believe it, coming from you. Now she wants to wear a fleece cap in the middle of spring. 

It’s silly, the hypotheticals. You’d tell me it was silly. Maybe it’s the only thing I have, now. I can’t feel or touch anything else, just see it, in my head, like a dream. Like a movie, playing reels. 

We moved to New York last fall. I was offered a teaching position here. There’s this professor—he’s ex-Agency, CT, Daniel Cartwright—did you ever meet him? He teaches a seminar on terrorism/counterterrorism and thought I’d be a good fit for the school. He said I’d be one of the only people who’s been on both sides.

What I wanted to say is that maybe I’m the only one who’s looked at both sides from the middle. 

It’s a short thing, the contract will be over in a few months, but I really like it. 

I wish you could meet some of the people who come through here, though. I think, I want to see that guy in five years. I want to see that guy in ten years. I was like that once. Filled with so much optimism, so idealistic, principled. Naïve is what I was. I wonder if they’ll be able to get out from under it. If they’ll lose themselves. 

Maybe none of it really matters. 

But I think Franny likes it here (aside from the hair teasing). She’s a little slow to make friends, a little shy. But independent as hell. A few weekends ago we taught her to ride a bike in the park. It was the first warm spring day we’ve had all year. It only took her a few tries and then she had it. Think she’s a natural. Now she wants to ride everywhere. The other day she asked me if she could ride her bike from our apartment to the park by herself. It’s more than ten blocks. 

It scares me, thinking of letting her go. When I know just a few years ago, it scared the hell out of me to think of someone clinging to me like that. Of someone _depending_ on me like that, _needing_ me. Now, sometimes, it’s the only thing that keeps me going. 

You were right about that. You were always right about her. From the very beginning, you saw through everything. You saw me, and you saw her. You were always so fucking right about it. It drove me crazy then, but I can say thank you now. I was so lost, for such a long time. 

I think a lot about what I’ll tell Franny when she asks about that. Should I lie? Should I be honest? Would she forgive me? Some day she’ll ask about her father, how we met, where he is now. I don’t have those answers yet. Each day I feel like I’m running on borrowed time. I keep putting it off, and putting it off. 

Last week she saw a picture of us—one of the first ones of us, back in my old apartment in DC. She’s wearing these red and pink pajamas. She asked me where we were, how old she was, how old _I_ was. Some day she’ll ask the same questions about Berlin, or Kabul, or Islamabad. She’ll ask about these nameless faces. 

I don’t want to lie to my kid.

I think you’d probably tell me to just suck it up, to just tell her when she asks, to wait patiently, but do it. I can hear you telling me this, I can still hear your voice so sharply in my mind, the sound of your “f”s at the end of words. 

I know you didn’t think so, but you would have been a good father. I know you would have been

But I promised you before I wouldn’t dwell on “would have been”s. Or, I promised myself. In my head, you were there, and I promised you, too. For everyone’s sake, to let myself move past it. 

I think, every day, of my routine. I think of getting up, getting a cup of coffee before Franny’s awake, getting Franny ready for school, making her breakfast and lunch, walking her to school, taking the train uptown. I think of sitting at the front of a class full of people waiting for me to say something. I think of giving them an assignment so I don’t have to think of anything to say. I think of going an entire day without saying anything at all. I think of the one or two conversations I have with the students who linger after class, who want to ask questions, who want to know more, who want to know answers. I think of taking the train back, of picking Franny up from school, holding her in my arms, wondering how many more times she’ll do that, run and jump into my arms, excited to see me, how many more hugs like that I’ll get. I think of making her a snack at home, making sure she does thirty minutes of reading every night. I think of answering her questions, about characters in a book, about schoolwork. I think of getting her ready for bed, making sure she brushes her teeth and hair and has her things ready for tomorrow. I think of taking a bath after she’s gone to bed, long and hot, my sole indulgence. And then locking the door and going to bed and doing it all over the next day. 

Everyone said it was important for Franny to have a routine, and for me as well. That it would bring back some semblance of normalcy to our lives. Each day we walk one step closer to something else and one step further away from what we left behind. Getting used to it, letting it feel normal. It makes me feel sick, and it’s why I had to leave. 

Sometimes I feel like I’ve started separate threads of the same life. Like they’re just growing off some central root, branches on a tree, splitting into a fork, but no semblance of the first in the second, or the second in the third, or the third in the fourth. And no warning for when one will stop and another start. 

I think, what does that first life look like now? Or the second or third? Did it just end, or did it keep going, in parallel to the others, to my own now? What would I see, if I peered into it? How would I be? Where would I be going? Who would I love?

I think you’re in one. We’re young, younger than I am now. We drive clear from one end of the country to another, because we can, because we just like to drive. We have a car with a sun roof and open it up on the warm days. We blare Tom Petty’s “American Girl” on the radio and sing off-pitch together. I sit cross-legged in the passenger seat next to you. And you let your hair grow long because it’s easier to feel it blowing in the wind.

I think you’d like that. 

Love,  
Carrie 


End file.
